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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 14
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Fourteen 15 April 1960 Malcolm was sitting in the kitchen with Elgar, who was teaching him how to make a proper custard. “It is crucial, Master Malcolm, to keep stirring the pot gently,” the elf was saying, indicating the wooden spoon that was revolving in a steaming pot. “You can do it by hand or by magic—once you is of age, of course—but you must do it, or the custard will curdle. Here,” said Elgar, stopping the spoon and urging the boy to step to the stove. “Master Malcolm should try it.” Malcolm did as he was bid and took the spoon, gingerly stirring the pot. He had been so disappointed when Elgar had arrived without his mother. She was delayed at the school, Elgar said, and would be along as soon as she could. His last visit was at Christmas, and he was aching to see her, but at fifteen, he wasn’t about to let anyone know, so he affected what he hoped was a world-weary nonchalance on the subject. He knew he wasn’t fooling Elgar. Malcolm couldn’t keep his eyes from glancing toward the entry hall every few seconds, and finally, the elf had suggested it was time Master Malcolm learnt to cook a little—why didn’t young Master come to the kitchen to assist Elgar in making the ginger-lemon curd he so loved with his scones? Gran and Granddad had given their blessing to the arrangement, and off he went with the elf. So here he was, standing over a hot stove, stirring the curd as if he weren’t a wizard with a wand to help him do manual tasks like this. Ah, well, he told himself, one has to stir potions by hand too. And he liked being with Elgar. It reminded him of when they were all together in France, a proper family. Before his dad had come over funny and ran off. Because that’s what had happened, Malcolm was sure of it. When he was young, he had believed what his mum had said about Father disappearing and nobody knowing what had happened. Then, when he got older, he heard stories about fathers who left mothers to go off with other women—it had happened to a classmate, who came home from one summer hol groaning about having two mothers after his dad had married the woman he’d left for. Malcolm supposed that might be why his dad had drunk so much those last months; he was in love with someone else, and it had torn him apart not to be with her. Sometimes Malcolm wondered if Mum knew where Father was. Did she really believe he had just disappeared? Or did she know where he was and whom he was with? Malcolm never asked her, though, because he didn’t want to hurt her. If she was happier living in a dream, he wasn’t going to go out of his way to change it. Whatever had happened to make his dad leave, it wasn’t her fault. Malcolm was sure of that too. At first, he had missed his dad, despite the last frightening months; then, as his memories of the man faded, it was more like he missed the idea of his dad. Sometimes he wondered if his dad had another son now. Malcolm was so intent on his task and lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice her standing in the doorway to the kitchen until Elgar nudged him, and he looked up to see her watching him with a small smile. “Mum!” he cried, dropping the spoon to go to her. She embraced him, kissing his cheek and hugging him to her. “Och, Malcolm,” she said, ruffling his brown mop, “don’t they teach you any hair-trimming spells at that French school of yours?” “No, Mum. They don’t teach us anything at Beauxbatons. It’s a second-rate institution you’ve sent me to,” he teased. “Maybe I should transfer to Hogwarts. Although I hear their Transfiguration mistress is a terror.” “That’s Professor Terror to you, lad,” said a voice from behind him, and he saw his granddad come in and embrace his mother warmly. “Ah, Minerva. ’Tis good to see ye.” “It’s good to see you too, Father,” she replied. The curd forgotten, the three of them made their way to the parlour, where Malcolm’s gran was sitting reading a book. “So you found them, I see, Magnus,” Gran said. They talked of all manner of things until they were interrupted by dinner. As they ate their Cock-a-Leekie, Gran asked, “What was the emergency that kept you at the school, Minerva?” Malcolm’s mum answered, “Professor Yates, our deputy headmaster, took ill on Wednesday. We got the news yesterday that it was dragon pox.” “Morgana preserve us!” Gran exclaimed. “It’s all right, Mother. He was wise enough to take to his rooms as soon as he began feeling ill, and we were under quarantine until this afternoon. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to worry you. Albus brought some Healers up from St Mungo’s to run diagnostics on the entire school, and nobody else has been infected, thank Merlin. That’s why I was late getting here; we were just getting the last students off at five. I’m sorry to be late, Malcolm,” she said, turning to Malcolm. “That’s all right, Mum. I’m just glad everyone is all right,” he replied. “Well, not everyone,” she corrected. “Unfortunately, Professor Yates is in a very bad way. He’s not a young man, and the pox is a nasty disease.” “I’m sorry to hear it. Do they know how he contracted it?” Granddad asked. “Not with any certainty, no,” Mum replied. “He has a friend who has been working in Romania, and evidently they’ve been having a small outbreak in the north. Phillip’s friend was in town last weekend, and they met up at the Three Broomsticks—incidentally, they’re still under quarantine. Fortunately, they didn’t … um … leave the room much, so other exposures were limited, or we’d likely be dealing with a mass quarantine now. Phillip—Professor Yates—told Albus that the man seemed well at the time, but one never knows. The incubation period is around forty-eight hours, apparently, so it’s possible he infected Phillip sometime over the weekend, while he still appeared well.” “Gods,” said Granddad. “The man who invents a potion to cure dragon pox will be made Minister of Magic in a heartbeat.” Mum replied, “The man or woman who invents a potion to prevent dragon pox will have the eternal gratitude of the wizarding world. The scars are terrible, even if one survives the illness.” “Here, here,” said Gran, raising her glass, and they all followed suit. The next day, Malcolm and his mother were out on the manor grounds, Malcolm swooping and soaring on his broom. He’d been a Chaser for one of the Beauxbatons Quidditch teams since last year and was anxious to show her some of his newest moves. When he finally lit next to her, she was grinning widely. “You certainly know how to put that Silver Arrow through its paces. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone pull out of a dive and ascend again so quickly! I’d be surprised if a Bludger ever even caught your wind.” “Oh, Mum,” he answered when he caught his breath. “You’ve never seen a professional game, then.” “I have! Amelia and I have seen the Harpies twice now, I’ll have you know.” “You have? You’ve never been much interested in Quidditch.” “Well, I never had a son who was on a team before. Besides, I have to attend all the school matches, so I thought I might as well learn something about the game. Amelia’s a big fan, and she’s been giving me the introductory course.” “You surprise me, Mum,” he said. She just smiled at him. “I wish—” he started, then checked himself. If wishes were Thestrals, his mum would say next. But she surprised him again. “What do you wish, darling?” “Oh, just that you could see me play sometime,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I wish that too,” she said. Then: “Come. It’s almost time for lunch, and you’ll need a bath before Gran lets you anywhere near her table.” As he was scrubbing the grit and perspiration from his body, Malcolm thought about what his mum had said—that she wished she could see him play. Maybe this would be the time to ask her, then. Malcolm wanted to come to Scotland to live with her. He liked Beauxbatons well enough; he did well in his studies and had friends, and making the Quidditch team last year had been great, but he felt more and more untethered lately. Like an orphan. Oh, Mum wrote every week—sometimes several times—and they were together on hols (when she could get off, that was) and all summer, but the plain, unvarnished truth of it was that he felt he was missing something. Holiday gatherings like this only served to underscore the feeling of emptiness when his mum left him at the filigreed gates of the French school. He also felt that there was an indelible mark on him that was visible only at school. He had been a first-year—only in his second week—when he had been called into Headmistress Charpentier’s office to find his mother standing there, looking grave and shaken. By the end of his third week at Beauxbatons, everyone had known about his father. By the end of his fourth, everyone had also known that his mother had been forced to sell nearly everything in their flat to pay for his second term at school. To be sure, there were other kids whose troubled homes were common topics of discussion, but it didn’t make Malcolm feel any kinship for them, nor did it make his own dubious fame easier to bear. A new start, a new school—a new country—might ease that. And he’d get to be part of a family all the time, not just via letter from afar or over hols that were over all too soon. He would ask her before the week was out, he resolved. He didn’t know why he was nervous, though. There was really no good reason for her not to agree. ~oOo~ “I think you’ve got it now,” Mum said the third time Malcolm had managed to Transfigure the garden gnome into a perfect common gopher. “Change him back, then we can have a spot of tea, all right?” Malcolm did so, and moments later, the gnome was gnashing its teeth and trying to bite Mum as she lifted it by one foot and dropped it into the cage on the desk. After she had summoned a house-elf and asked her to deposit the gnome on the grounds (“outside the gate, if you please, Gemmy”), she ordered the tea. “I’m very pleased with your progress, Malcolm,” she said. “You’ve a real aptitude for Transfiguration. Do you enjoy the subject?” “Yes. It’s my favourite, but …” “But?” his mum enquired. “It’s just that Professeur Perrault … not to say anything bad about him, mind you … it’s just that I feel as if he’s holding me back. He won’t give me any advanced assignments, even though I’m way ahead of my class.” “Maybe he doesn’t believe you’re ready to advance,” Mum said. “Maybe,” said Malcolm. “But what do you think?” he asked. He saw her lip twitching before she answered. “I don’t think it’s my place to criticise another teacher’s methods.” “So you do think I’m ready!” “That isn’t what I said, Malcolm,” she admonished. “But Mum, you’ve seen what I can do. I just feel as if I’m … as if I’m—what’s the word?—Stagnating. Yes, like I’m stagnating in his class when I could be moving ahead. Didn’t you do advanced projects when you were my age?” he asked. “Yes, I did, but Malcolm—” “See? Professor What’s-His-Name didn’t try to hold you back, he helped you get ahead!” “Dumbledore.” “I’m sorry?” “His name is Professor Dumbledore,” she said quietly. “And yes, he did help me.” Malcolm was chastened for just a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” She didn’t say anything for a few moments, and Malcolm thought she was angry. This wasn’t going at all the way he had hoped. When she spoke, though, she didn’t sound angry. She sounded worried. “What of your other courses, Malcolm? Do you feel … constrained in any of your other classes?” He saw his opening and took it. “Well, I feel as if I could be doing more in Charms and Magical Defence. But it’s really Transfiguration where I’m frustrated.” “Malcolm, I’m very hesitant to interfere with another teacher’s methods—” “But you could teach me!” he blurted out. “What do you mean?” “Mum, I’d like to come to Hogwarts.” There. It was out. He held his breath for a few moments as she stood saying nothing but looking at him in shock. He was taken aback when he saw tears form in her eyes and begin to spill down her cheeks. “Oh, Mum! I’m sorry!” he exclaimed and went to her. “No, no, Malcolm,” she sniffled. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.” He conjured a handkerchief and handed it to her, earning him a wan smile. Drying her eyes, she asked, “Is that what this has all been about? You want to come home?” “Um … well, partly.” “Were you afraid to ask me, Malcolm?” “No, not exactly. It’s just that I know what you had to do to get the tuition for Beauxbatons, and I didn’t want you to think I was ungrateful.” “No, lamb. I don’t think you’re ungrateful,” she said, putting a palm out to stroke his cheek, which had lately begun sprouting a soft, auburn fuzz, lighter than the hair on his head. “I just thought you were happy at Beauxbatons …” she said, and he was alarmed to see her eyes fill again. He quickly said, “Oh, I have been happy there, Mum. It isn’t that. I just think that I’d like to be closer to you, to Gran and Granddad. I don’t know why, exactly. It’s just something I feel.” “If you’re sure—” “Oh, I am!” “Well then, I’ll speak to Professor Dumbledore to see if we can arrange a place for you for next term.” “Mum, that’s fantastic!” “Yes, well, don’t thank me just yet,” she said, and Malcolm was relieved that his familiar, stern mum was back. “Coming in in your fifth year won’t be easy. You’ll be ahead in some courses and behind in others.” “I know.” “And you may find it difficult to make friends. All the other students already know each other quite well by now.” “I know.” “And there’s no guarantee you’ll make the Quidditch team of whatever house you’re put into …” “That’s fine, Mum. Really. I’ve thought about all those things, and it’s worth it.” “If you’re sure then …” “I am.” She opened her arms and he let her hug him. “It will be nice to have you home,” she said. Malcolm was pleased to note that she was trembling with happiness. ← Back to Chapter 13 On to Chapter 15→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A